


The Art of Pretending

by Anorkie



Category: Naruto
Genre: Age Difference, Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, POV Second Person, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But, this is Itachi's brother, you remember. Itachi would not let him survive unless he wanted him to. Unfortunately, you do not know why. As close as you were to Itachi, he only ever showed you what he truly felt, what he truly wanted in small moments between missions, when he might have looked at something a certain way or spoke slightly off-tone. There is nothing solid to go off of. Just these small hints.</p><p>It will have to be enough, you decide. If Itachi wanted him to live, he will live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Pretending

 

There is a thin line between pretending and lying.

When you find the bodies of your partner and his opponent littered on the ground, lifeless, you are not surprised. At least, you shouldn't be. This was always the endgame; a fool could see that. Still, you go to your partner and easily gather him into your arms. You feel for a pulse you know will not be there.

On Itachi's lips is a faded smile, dried blood. Small clues to how he might have died. When you glance at his kid brother, battered and motionless, you think, _no way. There's no way._

Carefully, you pick up Itachi and step over his brother's body. You find yourself walking slow, unable to fully grasp the reality of the situation. You are lost in the details of Itachi's face, suddenly stricken achromatic. This is not how you want to remember him.

A cough, a pinprick of a sound, catches your attention. Disbelief has you walking in reverse and hovering over your partner's kid brother. You watch as the boy rolls over with eyes and mouth wide in a silent scream. A combination of saliva and bile erupts and drips, unsightly, over the corners of his mouth and down his neck. A pitiful gurgling sound arises from the base of his throat. He's choking.

With a dead comrade in your arms, you should feel powerful, above all else. What a rare occurrence, this is. What a gift. The authority to decide what happens to this brat is one wanted by many, you're sure.

But, _this is Itachi's brother_ , you remember. Itachi would not let him survive unless he _wanted_ him to. Unfortunately, you do not know why. As close as you were to Itachi, he only ever showed you what he truly felt, what he truly wanted in small moments between missions, when he might have looked at something a certain way or spoke slightly off-tone. There is nothing solid to go off of. Just these small hints.

 _It will have to be enough_ , you decide, as you kick Sasuke onto his side to prevent him from further choking on his own bodily fluids.

If Itachi wanted him to live, he will live.

 

 

Burying Itachi seems wrong. You had this absurd fantasy that he might transform into a cluster of crows before dispersing beautiful, endlessly into the moonless sky. It is just a body, in the end. You keep his necklace and ring for selfish reasons.

You booked a room at an inn a few days ago. The innkeeper avoided your gaze during the entire transaction, even going as far as to carelessly toss the key onto the wood of the counter. She knows who you are, but she is afraid. She won't tell. You swipe the key with easy confidence.

Sasuke sleeps for three days, only getting up to stumble to the bathroom sink. He turns his head sideways to chug dirty water from the faucet, gulping sharp and hard for minutes on end. You have only tried getting his attention once when he was like this, a quick, _hey, kid._ He did not seem to notice and collapsed against the futon, like he does every time.

In the meantime, you observe. When you are not observing, you are cooking, pacing or trying to pick the grime from underneath your fingers. Whatever it takes to keep you distracted. In the night, when the room is only illuminated by candles and moonlight, it disturbs you to realize how much Sasuke looks like Itachi. There had always been the obvious differences but now, especially now, it is hard to distinguish them. You force yourself to look away.

He wakes up on the fourth day, irritated but also, more importantly, physically exhausted. Wordlessly, he approaches you with his posture firm and muscles tense. His eyes go red. This doesn't faze you. You interpret it as an intimidation tactic rather than a physical threat. When he is within arms reach, you roughly jab your fingers against his chest, knocking him back onto the futon. Honestly, you weren't expecting that. He seems as surprised as you.

“Eat something,” you say. “You can try that again once you actually have the energy for it.”

Stupid boy.

You don't look at him again until night falls and you're handing him a bowl of soup. He stares at the steaming liquid, questionable, for a long time. When he finally begins to eat, you find yourself staring at his hands. Years of training and combat are embedded in those fingertips. Scabbed callouses rest in the palms. The fingernails are short. Too short. You think of another pair of hands, seemingly soft with long, painted nails. Violet veins just barely meeting the surface of the skin. How could the same blood rush through these hands?

The bowl smacks against the table, spilling hot soup onto the wood and Sasuke's skin. The hot sting doesn't seem to bother him. Instead, “What do you want with me? Why not do away with me when you had the chance?”

“You think I lost my chance?”

He says nothing in return, fully aware of his, albeit temporary, physical condition. You could tower over him in an instant. You could seize his throat, feel the taut muscles tremble uncontrollably in your grip. The sounds of straining vocal chords and collapsing windpipes echoing in your ears. An outstanding substitute for torn flesh and blood. A nice change of pace.

“I murdered your partner,” he says, suddenly. “But, I take it the two of you weren't close.”

If you had a grin on your face, it's gone now.

“You're right.”

You shrug off your cloak, neatly fold it over a chair and let your back hit the futon. It groans under the sudden weight. You sigh and splay your forearm over your face. Sasuke is still sitting by the small table, meal unfinished and questions unanswered.

“I sleep here tonight.” Your voice is calm. “You hogged the damn bed for days.”

Your heart aches for something it never had.

 

  
You wake up to nothing during the early hours of the morning. You feel alone until you realize you shouldn't be. The early moments of conscious convince you that the boy has disappeared. Startled, you jolt awake, eyes searching the room frantically. You're halfway out of bed before you finally sense him. He's standing outside on the balcony. The gentle fading of the moon reflects vividly in his wide eyes. His skin is transparent against the black mess of hair. From here, he is Itachi. Drunk tiredness still pulls from behind your face and you think, for an agonizingly short moment, you can approach him with the confidence of familiarity. Maybe make a bad joke. Be recognized as an asset, a partner or a friend.

You go back to sleep.

 

  
Periodically, you step out of the inn to take a walk into town. As a wanted man, you acknowledge the carelessness of your actions. All it takes is the wrong person seeing you, really. As you hand coins to the man at the marketplace, in exchange for rice, he seems to notice every oddity about you. Like the innkeeper, he knows who you are. There's a certain _look_ a person carries when the realization finally hits them.

When he makes eye contact with you, you shake your head. He swallows, hard, before finding something else to feed his curiosity. You take your leave.

You lie to yourself, telling yourself you are surprised to see Sasuke has made the decision to continue to inhabit the same space as you. He sits on the futon with his back hunched forward and legs dangling. His posture is sloppy yet deliberate. This is a constant, you will later learn. Reminds you of Itachi in his calmer moments.

“Nothing's keeping you here. Go. Be free.” The bagged rice softly pats against the table as you set it down.

“You seem not to bear any ill-will towards me. Until I have recovered, I'm not going anywhere. I'd be stupid to rush back out there in this state.”

“Are you angry?”

His eyes squint, slightly. “What?”

“You always seem angry,” you say. “Anger makes you stupid.”

A momentary quiet falls between you and him. His upper lip twitches into a soft snarl.

“What are you getting at?”

“What I mean is,” you say. “You're stupid all the time.”

Sasuke is pressing all of his body weight against you in an instant. His hand searches for a weapon with blind aggression. There is the acute sting of him smashing one of his feet over yours. His hair seems to rise in the air of hostility. You recognize his potential to be intimidating but you are, and always will be, larger and taller than this boy. You can easily overpower him when it comes to physical strength. So you do.

You thrust your knee into his gut. And you are genuinely surprised when he catches the blow in his hand. Instead, you smack your palm against his forehead, clench the surrounding area and send him flying against the opposite wall. The sound of his skull making contact with the hard surface is satisfying. His body lands in a knot on the futon. You don't give him the opportunity to try again.

With much resistance, you fold up his arms until finally sitting on his back. At first, he demands you to get off of him. The demands are soon replaced by cursing and frustrated screaming. You apply a steady pressure against his shins with your heels. You idly stare outside as he exhausts himself with saturated sighs and a heaving, constrained chest. You only ease up a bit on the pressure when he is thrown into a coughing fit. There is drool edging up over his lower lip, you notice, as you look over your shoulder. His face is flush.

You did this to Itachi, once. It was in the beginning, before you decided he was the better leader. Before you noticed those haunted looks in the early hours of the day meant the eve of a nightmare. Way before you realized that, if Akatsuki was infinite, you would never leave his side. You don't recall the content of the argument – that part is unimportant. You just remember taking him by surprise. Once caught, he didn't even try to resist you. It was either acceptance or embarrassment. You eased off of him after a minute or so. He brought up the incident in conversation, maybe a year later, with an easy expression on his face.

It's nearly dusk. You don't know how long you've kept Sasuke stuck in this position. You don't expect him to ask nicely or beg for release; he's too proud for that. You decide to relieve yourself of the burden, instead.

Sasuke is on you the second it takes to get off of him. His hands are at your throat, but they are sore. You swipe them away and push the boy onto his back.

“You said you wanted to rest, so do it. Don't waste your energy on me.”

He spits in your face. Something you did not expect. Though, you figure, maybe you should have for humiliating a teenaged boy in such a manner.

“Don't waste your energy on me,” you say again, louder.

Sasuke slips from your grasp and stumbles when his feet touch the ground. He disappears behind the slamming bathroom door. You press your palm against your damp cheek, wipe away the residue.

 

  
The days begin to blur into each other. The kid dodges your eyes during all hours of the day. You tell him, over the heat of steeping soup and boiling rice, he is boundless. You keep the balcony door open as a constant reminder of his freedom.

You and him sit together, eat together. Conversation is sparse. At night, when it is your turn to sleep on the futon, the sounds of a blade being diligently sharpened shakes you awake. Other times, it is Sasuke's feet tapping against the bamboo floors. He wanders to the balcony and stares at the sky. You can't help but watch with heavy eyes.

One night, you remind him of your track record. And of his. You have been unwise – no, cocky – to stay in one place for so long. When you depart, it would be in his best interest to leave as well. Find a new goal. Cast himself away from nostalgic comrades and survive.

For the first time in days, he looks at you.

 

  
There is little to pack. Samehada feels heavy against your spine. You decided early on that you would leave any food behind. As a courtesy, you place a few coins besides the packaged leftovers. Sasuke is still sleeping, you think, on the futon. His back faces you. You close the door behind you and head downstairs.

The innkeeper seems delighted that you are finally, _finally_ , checking out. Absentmindedly, you thumb through your pockets. Something is missing. The realization is dull, delayed and you apologize before telling the woman you forgot something in the room. Impatient, she returns the key to you.

You don't need the necklace or the ring. Both pieces of jewelery are entirely without purpose. _Meaningless things_ , you tell yourself, as you open the door. Before anything else, your attention catches the recently abandoned futon. Specifically, the red on it. The sheets and blankets seem to gather around the blood, leaving it completely undisturbed. A cough sounds from the bathroom.

Lightly, with your fingers, you tap on the door. Another cough. Then, the grotesque sound of hot fluids smacking against the hard surface of a sink. Unannounced, and fully aware of how intrusive you are being, you open the door. It's hard to care about decency anymore.

Sasuke is hunched over the sink, barely standing on a pair of wobbly legs. One hand clutches the faucet, keeping him in place, while the other is clasped over his mouth. Blood and bile oozes from the cracks in his fingers.

“Go away,” he says into his hand.

You've seen this before.

Caring for others so openly is...uncharacteristic of you. You know this. You also know Sasuke is not one to appreciate charity. So, when you approach the kid, arms open and wanting to help, it is unsurprising how reluctant he is to accept anything from you. He pushes you away and nearly falls in the process. The exertion seems to cause even more coughing, even more blood. This time, you manage to grab him before he smacks his head against the floor.

He growls when you set him gently onto the hardwood. His eyes search for you but are unable to concentrate on anything for more than second. He's breathing too fast. Your hands fumble with a rag as you fold it under running water.

The last few months spent with Itachi were the most difficult. You became a crutch. You discussed homemade remedies with women selling herbs, and purchased organic ingredients from traveling merchants. You mixed teas and bid Itachi to drink. If the two of you were limited to one room inns on your missions, he got the bed, always. And when he woke up solely with the aid of self-discipline, you insisted he sleep longer. He was not one to resist or complain. He never asked for your help. You told him to drink, he did. You told him to sleep, he did.

You are slowly learning that Sasuke is nothing like his brother. He resists you with every inch of his being. You tell him to stop, that he needs to calm down. You press the rag against his forehead and feel it quickly grow warm over his burning skin. His fingers sink into your wrists. His lips move with inaudible curses.

You know he's exhausted himself when the numbness subsides and you can feel wetness seeping from the scratches littering your arms. His hands hit the floor with a gentle thud. Finally, his breathing has evened out. You stand up to rinse the cloth and reapply it to his forehead. Absentmindedly, you run your fingers through his hair, now dampened with sweat. There's a ringing in your ears. Sasuke's half-open eyes stare at the ceiling. He doesn't see you anymore.

 

  
He ignores you, again. Saying you intend on leaving, maybe stopping by another inn and continuing to ignore your duties seems to get his attention. You remind him of his freedom. You speak of mortality.

“How long?” You gesture to the handful of blood. Sasuke looks at it like it's not his own, like it's poison.

“After you brought me here,” is his delayed response. “Itachi coughed up blood when we fought. Just like I am now.”

“Your brother was ill,” you say. “He kept it to himself. I don't think he ever intended on telling me. I just found out.”

Sasuke draws small circles against the table. His stare is so intense you think he could blow a hole through it.

“He told me it was hereditary, once,” you add.

His hand turns into a fist and slams down, splitting wood.

“That's a lie,” he says through his teeth.

You shrug and sip your tea.

“Maybe. I wouldn't know.”

 

  
You leave for another place. It takes two days to walk out of this village and into the next. Every time you look over your shoulder, you expect the boy to be gone. He's always just a few feet behind you.

Your mind is too occupied with other thoughts to debate the why.

 

  
This inn is smaller than the last. It rests under the shade of towering, twisted trees. Vines and moss grow around the edges of the brick, intertwining the structure with the landscape. People don't stop by here often, you assume. It's easy to miss.

Unsurprisingly, the cost is cheap. The man behind the counter appears ancient, like he's made of stone. Harsh wrinkles surround his eyes and mouth. His lips appear to be caught in a permanent smile. His voice is small and kind. Sasuke paces the lobby as you count out your change.

The room is smaller, also. There is a single bed. A chair, tucked into a corner. No balcony. Nothing to boil hot water over, unless you get creative. Sasuke squeezes pass you and immediately plops, face first, onto the mattress. His shoulders shake as he stifles a cough. By the time you place Samehada against a wall and remove your cloak, the kid is asleep. You gently move him onto his side.

 

  
You watch Sasuke deteriorate, dedicate most of his time to sleeping. You wonder what's going through his head. You wonder if he thinks, or hopes, a disease like his can be cured with enough rest. You watch him toss and turn during all hours of the day, from the chair in the corner. He holds pillows over his head, stretching the fabric, to block out noise you cannot hear. His toes curl around the sheets. He speaks of people you only know by name, in a disoriented tongue.

When you weren't looking, was it this bad for Itachi?

You pour water over Sasuke's forehead, watch his eyes come back to life for a moment before going dull. With splaying fingers, you push his hair out of his face and against his scalp. He feels the cool of your palm for a moment and snaps at your wrist, holding your hand in place. You don't fight it; instead, you press your other hand against the back of his neck. You feel yourself swallowing when he shudders against your skin.

As night draws near, he lets you run your fingers through his hair. It takes about an hour of performing this mindless activity before it stops feeling awkward and starts feeling natural. Orange sunlight outlines the blurry edges of Sasuke's face. Fatigue disappears in a moment of calm. Something like ease washes over you and surrenders a warmth that begins at your fingertips.

You sigh, lightheaded and unfamiliar and anxious. You were not made for simple touches and caresses. Tearing away flesh is all you have ever been good for. Sasuke slowly shrinks away from your grasp. Hushed mumbles fill his mouth. He too was not made for such simple things.

You don't realize you fell asleep on the bed until you're waking up on it. The sun is gone. Black eyes stare from an expressionless face. For a second, you imagine him dead.

“What happens now?” You feel like this question isn't meant for you.

The bed being as small as it is, only a few inches divide you from him. One of his legs are uncomfortably tangled around yours. Your foot stings from recently cut circulation.

Sasuke speaks again, but you don't hear the words. The action is quick and sloppy – you pressing your lips against his. The aftertaste is thick, like dried skin and blood. Your chest deflates.

The boy's expression remains neutral. Carefully, he untangles his leg from yours. There is a low humming in the air you hadn't noticed until now. Maybe the kiss only happened in your head.

He turns his back to you. You can't sleep.

 

  
One afternoon, after taking a trip to the market, you find Sasuke lying on the floor with his hands holding either end of Itachi's necklace. The ring rests on his index finger. Upon hearing your footsteps, he asks why you would keep these things. You say nothing. In the midst of your silence, he snaps the necklace into pieces and throws the ring across the room. He looks at you, expectantly.

Patiently, you hover over the floor and retrieve the fragments and the ring. You place the pieces at the center of the table. Sasuke visibly tenses as you approach him, prepared for the swinging of a fist or sword. You extend a hand. His eyes move from the sudden gesture to your face.

From behind the neck of your cloak, you tell him to go outside and take a walk. Fresh air can only do him good. When he could help it, Itachi preferred to spend his time outside. Being surrounded by nature made him feel better, in a way sleep and medicine never could.

The boy throws his head back and laughs at your suggestion.

“You aren't obligated to take care of me.”

He's on his feet in an instant. His eyes haven't been so alive in days.

“I'm not him.”

A game of pretend is only possible when all parties are participating. The rulebook just went up in flames. You were obvious for how long, you wonder?

“ _I'm not him,_ ” he says with clenched teeth and burning red eyes. “My brother was a monster. He killed our family, _our parents_ , for fun. He turned my entire life into a spectacle for his amusement. Don't you dare liken me to him. I should kill you for having been associated with him.”

“I wouldn't stop you,” is the first thing to come out of your mouth.

Sasuke's blade hisses against the air. Fire erupts from his mouth. Flames engulf you. A death sentence. Steaming water follows the edges of your body, gathers at the center of your palm, explodes. When the mist fades, the boy's sword is stuck in the wall you're up against. Blood seeps from a small cut on your neck.

Sasuke struggles to retrieve his weapon. He moves like the water pulling at his clothes made him unbearably heavy. You hadn't noticed how much weight he lost until now. Bones peeking from under his chest leave you fixated until they are obscured by a bobbing head. Drenched hair hides his expression. There's blood. This isn't surprising.

One arm hangs loosely over the sword's hilt while the other is pressed firmly against the wall. You exist between them. The boy's head lightly hits your belly. He quickly shakes you off when you reach out for him. This continues to happen until you scoop him into your arms. You're met with a knee, drilling its way into your gut. There has never been a time in your life where you were more patient.

You toss the boy onto the bed, back first. He's weak enough to be restrained with a single hand to his chest.

“Liar,” he says with bitter amusement.

 

  
Despite the arguments, and general unease polluting the air, Sasuke does not leave. You're beginning to realize he no longer has the ability to. The disease resumes its relentless raid of his strength. The conditions in which it advances are unknown to you. You can assume Itachi suffered years before it got as aggressive as his brother's. Or, maybe Itachi was the better liar.

Sasuke accepts the water you offer but hands it back moments later, unable to drink it all. You watch him curl against the bed, mirroring the position he was in before sitting up. When he is on the cusp of unconsciousness, you settle beside him and massage small circles down his spine.

Your trips into town are less frequent. It becomes increasingly difficult to abandon the sight of trembling sheets concealing the collapse of stubbornness and pride. You prepare the same meal for days on end. Cold soup. Sasuke can only keep down solid food on rare occasions.

As night draws near, you crack open a window. The cool air seems to flush out all of the sickness clinging to the walls, the bed, if only for a moment. The mattress creaks. You feel eyes on your back.

“I should not be here anymore.”

When you turn around, you're relieved to see he's sitting up, at least. His toes graze the floorboards.

“I fulfilled my purpose.”

You take a seat beside him. The mattress shifts with your weight. He does not seem bothered by your presence. Rather, he seems numb to it.

“Join Akatsuki,” you say.

The illness has done what it likes to his physic; his laugh, however, remains untouched. It pops and cracks, like a fire consuming wood. Breathless, he says, “Why? So I can help them take over the world?” Then, laughter expelled, “Is that what you want from me?”

The boy snatches a fistful of your shirt with strength you no longer thought he possessed. He pulls you over him, yanking hard enough to tear the collar. You manage to catch yourself on your forearms. There is no hesitation in his movements. He presses his lips against yours, intoxicated, like a cure rests upon them. Fingernails, having finally had the chance to grow, rake your scalp. Your head spins.

“Pretend I'm him.”

The fabric of his shirt folds over itself as you run your hand up his side. When you kiss him back, you're reminded of animals and insects and their insatiable urge to fuck before dying.

 

  
There is something innocent about watching someone tremble and gasp through their first orgasm. The clumsy manner in which he moves suggests this can't be anything but a first-time experience. When the spasms in his legs subside, he releases his suffocating grip on you and relaxes against the bed. Aware of how hypersensitive his skin still is, you press kisses along his neck and collarbones. You eye the strange, dark mark peeking over the nape of the boy's neck. Your lips pull back in a slight grimace and reveal the sharp edge of teeth. Hard enamel pricks pale skin. Blood blossoms.

His reaction is instant and in the form of hands tugging hair at the base of your skull. He sounds genuinely terrified as he says, “Don't.”

A slow understanding retracts your teeth. You press your lips to the injury, smearing blood and, from there, resuming to scatter kisses on his flesh. Each mark you leave is less red than the last. Visible or not, they don't mean anything.

Afterward, you insist he bathes. When he does not offer a response, you go first. Your suggestion arises again when you're finished. It becomes evident he has no intention of moving as night becomes day. Tried of patience, you unceremoniously dump a bowl of cold water over his head. He shoots up, muscles tense from shock. You only let him glare at you for a moment before you throw an open towel over his face.

He eventually ends up in the bathroom. With your back against the mattress and eyes aimed at the ceiling, you concentrate on the sound of running water. You think an hour, maybe more, passes before Sasuke gets out of the tub and returns to his usual spot on the bed. The next time he coughs up blood, it is intertwined with thick mucus and is followed by bouts of bile. All you can do is rub his back, and wipe his mouth before is becomes filled with cloudy fluid, again and again.

 

  
You are finally able to separate Itachi and Sasuke. You stop seeing the similarities. In front of you is a boy, polluted by the dangerous ideas of revenge and hatred and everything in between. Too focused on becoming a killer to consider the feelings of himself or others. Normally, you might find this amusing – admirable, even. But you can't help but feel pity.

Sasuke recounts the slaughter of his family with a dry throat. The absolute heartache of facing betrayal from someone who told used to hold him, inspire him and scare off his nightmares. Obliterating his chances of a comfortable life. But, maybe _he's_ the real monster. He made attempts on the lives of people who used to be his friends, several times, without remorse. Sometimes, he killed in Orochimaru's name. Other times, for his own sake. How many families has he torn apart? He speaks of consequence and broken resolve and things that horrify him. Blood spews from his mouth with every spoken regret.

These words have never been shared before. Being the first to hear them does not sit well in your stomach, because you know they will never be repeated again. Once again, you feel overwhelmed by responsibility. Frustrated tears rush down Sasuke's face. Hurriedly, he rubs them away, like he can spare you the sight of weakness, like he didn't just reveal every fragile part of himself to you. His hands continue the action in a desperate attempt to dispel oncoming tears.

You lean in to kiss him. His breath is hot and wavering against your mouth. You forget the bitter taste of blood and mucus and saliva and focus on the gentle sounds of skin against skin. You fuck him slowly into the mattress and mumble words of forgiveness into the crook of his neck. He clings to you, silent, but only until the slow burn of arousal takes over. His back arches in unison with his neck. Moans fill in the empty spaces grief left behind.

When it's finished, he's still holding onto you. He looks calm for only a moment before turning his head and throwing up blood. Physical and emotional exhaustion shakes his entire body. As you help him sit up, the helplessness of his situation and inevitable end finally strike you. No amount of rest or herbal teas will cure him. There is no silver lining. There is no second chance.

There is no saving this boy.

That night, for the first time, he sits at the low-rise table with you. Fragments of jewelry still rest at the center. They may as well not exist.

“Are you in love with me?” There is sarcasm laced in the question. The harsh puffiness under his eyes makes it hard to take anything he says as a joke.

“Yes.” You aren't.

He cracks a smile, laughs.

“What happens now? Are you going to keep trying to take care of me?” His eyes sluggishly move to and from your gaze, glazed over. “Are you going to make me all better?”

“Why did you never leave?” you say.

“That's funny,” he says, humorless. “This whole time, I was waiting for you to go.”

 

  
You go down your small list of things to pack. You toss the jewelry in the wastebasket, along with any other trash lying around. Stained sheets hang, carefully folded, over the chair in the corner. You hover over Sasuke, who is asleep in the bed. Carefully, you follow the curve of his muscles and place your hands around his neck. Your thumbs dig into his windpipe sharply as you squeeze. He's awake now. You keep your vision trained on your hands, ignoring his protruding eyes and strangled gasps. His fingernails scratch the arms of your cloak. His legs kick at nothing.

Itachi is a distant memory as you break Sasuke's neck. Spasms shake the boy's body until it goes entirely limp. Slowly, you pull back black hair to reveal a terrified face. Red irises fade to black, unable to save their host. Blood dries on his lips.

The room cries out as you fasten Samehada on your back. The door swells. You don't care to look back on all the ghosts you leave behind, and they don't care to follow. You leave the innkeeper an obnoxiously large tip and a quiet apology.

You move on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Something I spent too much time on.


End file.
